Daughter
by Lily McIntire
Summary: Set about a week and a half after "47 Seconds". Castle's morning, before Beckett's call: a focus on his home life. Kate isn't the only breaker of his heart, or his only problem in need of solving. One shot?


"Daughter"

It wasn't the first morning he'd woken up thinking about her. It wasn't unusual that the thought of her guided him out of unconscious and into a sober reality without her in his bed. Sometimes her voice was the first thing he heard after his phone rang, if a body dropped early enough. If he was lucky enough. Today he was not lucky. It took less than ten seconds for it to set in – he wouldn't find her next to him, wound lovingly around him, warming the his skin and the sheets. The truth squirmed inside his chest, and he clenched his eyes back shut, untangling from the finely fibered sheets and rolling onto his bare back. He rubbed his palms against his eyes, reaching his right arm over to the very edges of his bed, along the comforter, feeling for any traces of warmth like an insane man. He knew nothing would be there; he'd recently taken to sleeping on one side of his monster mattress, versus in the middle and all over it. Maybe it had something to do with his dreams, where he was never alone under these warm dark covers, the way sleeping people twitch while dreaming, depending on their dream-related physical activity. When Alexis had been younger, she would often kick like she was running and make little baby fists during naps, a tiny ginger warrior against the common terrors of deep REM.

It was impossible to accept the fact that his warrior baby wouldn't be sleeping in their home, in just a few, short months. What's worse? She was leaving him with his mother.

He groaned, splaying an arm across weary eyes. His heart already missed her. His arms felt empty, without her inside them. It would be weird and lame to wake her up and demand a hug, right?

Pushing himself upright, he caught a glimpse of the _Frozen Heat_ poster propped up in his office, the room's door slightly ajar. Transfixed, threads left loose and plot lines circling his head, he had to give his cheeks a few slaps to get back to the present. That would have to put that on hold, until he checked his messages and made sure he hadn't missed anything important from the precinct. Until he made breakfast, said good morning on his women (but Alexis was really just his little girl), brewed some coffee. Maybe he would settle back into bed for a bit with his laptop, catch up on an overdue draft.

Sliding from his cocoon of warmth and shivering at the sensation of bare feet on cooled wood flooring, he shuffled his way to a chest of drawers, withdrawing a long sleeping shirt, pulling it over his ruffled bedhead and down his broad frame. His fingers brushed against his hip, catching his pause, wherein he poked an index finger into his fleshy side, making a face. Should probably do something about that. But, what'd it matter? He was a writer, not a swimsuit model. Or a cop. He kept telling himself.

* * *

Finding himself first occupied with the ritualistic morning brew, he hummed absently, watching the machine make something of hot water and coffee grinds. The aroma it created sharpened his awareness immediately, motivated him to produce something worth remembering that day. He moved to the refrigerator, waking it up, adding more noise to the silent and sleepy loft. Mother must be asleep. His daughter – he wish he knew. She wouldn't need to be at the precinct so early without a body, but it was simply impossible that she would still be sleeping. His lovely girl wasted no moment of sunlight spared for her. He sincerely admired her drive, her confidence in the world. He'd run with a little of that before college, too.

Now he wasn't so sure. The fates, what belief alone could accomplish – Beckett found them both foolhardy and childish. Unreal. Mythical. The mild ache of his heart was proof enough that his partner was right in her disbelief. He loved her. And she didn't love him back. What kind of morose fairytale was that? A sadly realistic one, he thought.

"Dad?" He was drawn back to his kitchen, standing remarkably at the island in the middle of his kitchen, pouring orange juice into a glass. Pouring orange juice on the countertop. "You're feeding the counter."

"Hm? Oh. Birds didn't want it." He offered her a light smile, setting down the carton of OJ, moving to grab a towel – but she'd beat him with paper towels. "You snag the paper, let me clean up my mess. Good morning, sweetheart."

She maneuvered around the island, catching his cheek in a kiss. "Morning!" The girl bounced towards the front door, opening it briefly to fetch the morning paper, closing it once her fingers grasped the grey newsprint, returning to the island to sit this time. Castle was wiping away the last of the juice when she placed the paper on the island's surface. He glanced over it before propping himself on his elbows, peering anxiously at his young daughter, who was now busily braiding her hair. She looked up at him using only her eyes, fingers continuing their knotting and twisting. She was a pro. His daughter could do anything.

"Dad. Come on. No wonder Detective Beckett is creeped out by you!" She was smiling, so beautiful. Her skin looked like porcelain, she appeared breakable. Why couldn't he keep a wing wrapped around her forever?

"I disagree. Most women would be flattered, you know."

"Yeah, well I haven't exactly heard the morgue organ calling. You must have flattered her out."

"You think she's avoiding me?" He wondered if he could really slip that into the conversation without raising a red flag from Alexis. She didn't know about what he'd witnessed in the interrogation room a week ago, and he didn't bring Jacinda, or her name or existence at all around the loft. He knew what his mother and daughter would say, how they would react. He didn't want to hear it.

"Only if you've somehow managed to be an insensitive jerk. Again." She sarcastically retorted. Good. She was taking his comment lightly, but also somewhat seriously. She probably thought he just needed reassurance, and being the greatest daughter in the world, ever…

"I am prone to insensitive jerkishness. It's the hormones. I'm helpless." He pouted, messing his fingers in her braid. His daughter stilled, glared at him, and pinched his forearm.

"No kidding! Jeez." She hurriedly mended the mussed hair, having to unbraid some, and part the sections in order to do so. "You're always doing that." Her eyes left his to focus on securing the braid.

"Doing what?"

"Running amuck in set concrete. You always have to sign your initials or something." She smirked, slinging the single fiery braid behind her shoulder. He watched it go, swinging against her pink sweater. He loved that colour on her. It reminded him of days when she would beg and do practically anything for a piggyback ride. Even write his books. He wasn't above letting her.

"You're my favorite daughter. For doing it with me." Her lips parted, interrupted by the ringing of his phone. Not Beckett – sounded more like choked screams. That one was Paula.

"That too. You always do that, too." She rose then, heading towards the coffee pot. He'd totally forgotten. Moving around the counter to find his phone, he made sure to collide paths with his daughter, and against her volition, wrap his arms tightly around her, lifting her from the ground and spinning her on the spot tightly against his chest, which swelled vastly with warmth and love for his baby girl. Her arms only reacted when he was depositing her one hundred and eighty degrees from where he'd snatched her, conveniently in front of the noisy coffee pot. He was prepared for her to wiggle away from him, shooing him off, but she snaked her arms around his back, smashing her cheek against his chest. "I love you, Dad."

Too soon she'd released him, pushing him off with a reminder to run and catch his call, which he pursued in pleasant surprise. It appeared he wasn't the only one thinking of future mornings, mornings without his daughter. He was stuck between having pride and his heart in a frown, for he feared carrying not only the loss of his child to higher education, but the known anguish of one Alexis Castle, or rather, a little girl missing her dad.


End file.
